


Paint the World with Love and Hate

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epilogue? What epilogue?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:02:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: Neville discovers the benefits of art.





	Paint the World with Love and Hate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for xnevillelovingx's 30 Days of Neville fest, 2009.

Neville finished his pint and set it down, shaking his head when Tom motioned for a refill. Tossing a few Galleons onto the table, he rose and stretched, waving to the other pub patrons before starting for the door. It had been a long day, he was tired, and he’d put off sleep long enough.

He’d just started down Diagon Alley toward the Apparation point when he heard someone call out for him, followed by running footsteps.

“Neville? Oi, Neville wait up!” A moment later Dean pulled abreast of him, panting slightly. “Seamus told me you came here sometimes for a nightcap. I’m glad I caught you. Mind if I tag along for a bit?”

“I don’t mind.” Neville slowed down slightly, giving Dean a chance to catch his breath. “Why were you looking for me?”

Dean chuckled. “I’d planned to buy you a drink while I explained. I should have shown up five minutes earlier, yeah? We hardly see you anymore. How’s your Gran?”

“She’s adjusting. She’s figured out how to get from Point A to Point B in her chair, doing more for herself. She was the one who insisted I get out for a bit tonight. Said she was perfectly capable of reading a book and enjoying a pot of tea before bed without assistance from me, thank you very much.” Neville smiled, a bit tiredly. 

Gran had been permanently paralysed from the waist down by a Death Eater spell during the Battle of Hogwarts, and he’d spent much of the past year as her attentive nursemaid while she recovered. It was tiring yet rewarding, watching her regain her strength and at least some of her independence. She remained feisty and indomitable as ever, and Neville had never seen her give in to self-pity. Unfortunately, it meant he’d had to put his own life on hold, but it had been a sacrifice he’d been willing to make. It wasn’t as though he’d had an active social life even before the war, after all.

“Good to hear,” Dean said, sounding genuinely pleased at her progress. “I remember how worried you were for her.”

“You still haven’t told me why you were looking for me,” Neville reminded him. “What’s going on?”

“I...well.” Dean scratched the back of his neck with long, slender fingers. “I don’t know if you remember the project Hermione and Justin and I launched after the war for some of the survivors. A lot of people came out of that last battle fair traumatised. People our age aren’t supposed to watch friends die before our eyes.”

“Or tortured,” Neville added softly. “I seem to recall Luna mentioning it once or twice during her visits. Art classes for the walking wounded?”

“Not so much art classes. Art therapy.” Dean nodded. “It’s a Muggle idea, which was why Hermione thought of it first, but we were able to get funding from the Ministry once Shacklebolt got wind of the idea. Basically, we have people draw pictures detailing memories, feelings, that sort of thing, and then they discuss what they drew with Mind Healers on loan from St. Mungo’s. It’s a way of helping them get past the trauma and move on with their lives.”

They reached the Apparation point, and Neville turned to face Dean. “It sounds like a worthwhile project, but what do I have to do with it? I can’t imagine I feature in too many people’s happier memories.”

“That’s just it, though.” Dean leaned against an adjacent brick wall. “Most of the students in our first class have worked through the worst of their memories. They were asked to recall symbols of hope or strength that helped them during that time. Your name came up, almost unanimously among those who were trapped in Hogwarts that year. It got me to thinking.”

Neville shook his head. “Dean, I just did what I had to do. I’m no hero.”

“Maybe _you_ don’t think so, but _they_ do,” Dean replied.

“So you’re saying people are drawing stick pictures of me now? And it makes them feel better?”

Dean smiled, teeth flashing white in the dim light against his dark face. “Some of them are better than stick figures; but yes, that’s what we’ll be drawing next session. That’s where I was hoping you might come in. I thought it might be...well... _inspiring_ , if you showed up. Not to talk about your experiences, but as a – a model, a visual reference for their art. I think they’d appreciate it. I haven’t told anyone, so you’re not expected,” he added hastily, seeing Neville frown. “I wanted to ask you first before I raised up their hopes.”

“A surprise guest, so to speak? Seeing me won’t cause any flashbacks, will it?”

“As often as you’ve been reluctantly splashed all over every Wizarding publication in existence? I doubt it,” Dean answered, his tone wry. “These students are past the flashback stage, anyway.”

Neville hesitated, mulling over the offer before shaking his head. “I can’t, Dean. I know you mean well, but...I can’t. I’m sorry. I wish I could.”

Dean nodded, as though he’d expected the rejection. “Think it over. Maybe once your Gran’s stronger and you have more time to spare. I just thought I’d ask.”

“Maybe.” Neville’s tone was doubtful, even to his own ears. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” He stepped away, preparing to Apparate home. “Good night, Dean. It was nice catching up with you.”

He popped away before Dean could reply.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Neville woke with a low gasp, heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat beading his brow. Shivering, he sat up in bed, pulling the duvet over him and tucking it beneath his chin in a vain attempt to get warm. It did no good. He couldn’t stop shaking, the sound of his screams in the nightmare still echoing through his brain. Forcing himself to stillness, Neville listened for the sound of Gran’s voice and heard nothing. Good. He hadn’t screamed aloud. 

Rubbing his hands across his face, scrubbing away the sweat, Neville tried to bring his breathing back to normal, waiting for his heart to stop its attempt to gallop from his chest. 

“Dammit,” he whispered in the pre-dawn light. He hadn’t had that particular nightmare in months. “Dammit.”

Once the shivering subsided Neville slipped out of bed and into his dressing gown, shuffling toward the loo. A splash of cold water over his face helped banish the last few cobwebs from his brain, and he let out a long sigh. A quick glance at the clock told him it was too late to return to bed. Gran would be awake soon, wanting breakfast. He had enough time for a cup of hot tea and a rare opportunity to read today’s _Daily Prophet_ before Gran did.

A few moments to himself had become a rare commodity since Gran had been injured. It shouldn’t be wasted. Neville made his way into the kitchen and filled the teakettle, tapping it with his wand to start the water boiling while he fetched the tea canister along with the makings of breakfast. Gran liked it simple, plain porridge and a single soft-boiled egg to go with her tea.

The owl post arrived with the day’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ while Neville was putting the porridge on to cook. Slipping a couple of knuts into the pouch dangling from the owl’s leg, he fed the bird a bit of bacon from his own breakfast and sent it on its way. Pouring a second cup of tea, Neville sat down at the breakfast table, munching toast while reading the paper, enjoying the still silence.

Turning the page, Neville drank another swallow of tea and paused as a particular article caught his eye: **Scribbles Bring Healing to Some** , _by Rita Skeeter_. Ordinarily Neville skipped any article with Skeeter’s by-line, but this one was accompanied by a photograph of Dean Thomas, flanked by Hermione Granger on one side and Justin Finch-Fletchley on the other. All three managed to look sombre yet pleased. Intrigued despite the article’s author, Neville began reading.

The story fleshed out what Dean had already told him the night before. Children traumatised by the war used art as a means of working through the terrors they’d experienced. Most of those involved in the Ministry-sponsored, new-fangled art therapy had been younger students at Hogwarts, fourth years and below, during the reign of the Carrow siblings; but even more horrific, a few were Muggleborn children who had shown up at King’s Cross, ickle firsties eager to learn about this magical new world they’d only recently learned existed, only to be held prisoner deep in the bowels of the Ministry because of their “dirty” blood. Getting those children to return to school, to give the magical world another chance, remained one of Headmistress McGonagall’s most daunting tasks while the school rebuilt from the war. Neville could only imagine what those children’s first scribblings must have looked like.

Carefully, he set the newspaper aside and finished his tea, deep in thought. It seemed most of those involved in the art therapy were children. He wondered if similar sessions existed for older students and adults, or if the Ministry thought they were more able to cope on their own.

“Dammit, Dean,” Neville muttered, thinking of the return of last night’s nightmare. “This is your fault.”

“Neville?” Gran’s voice drifted down the hall, faint and querulous. “Neville, are you awake yet?”

“Coming, Gran,” he called back, folding the newspaper. Finishing his last few bites of toast, he rose to begin assembling Gran’s breakfast tray.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That afternoon, while Gran napped, Neville tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, sticking his head into the green flame and calling out Dean’s name.

“When’s the next session?” he asked the moment Dean hove into view. “I read Skeeter’s article.”

“Friday afternoon at three,” Dean replied. “You’ll come?”

“I’ll be there. Just don’t expect me to pose shirtless with a cheap copy of the Sword of Gryffindor in hand, because I won’t do it.”

Dean snorted. “Would I do something that tacky? I’ll see you Friday.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The session wasn’t nearly as awful as it could have been, Neville thought, watching the children file out the door, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. He’d only had to stand motionless in the middle of a semi-circle of easels, looking into the distance, wearing what he’d hoped had been a determined expression but suspecting he’d probably looked more constipated than noble. Afterward he’d signed a few autographs, something he usually refused when out in public, and answered a few questions from the braver students, several of whom he’d recognised, by face if not by name.

“That wasn’t so terrible, now was it?” Dean asked, dropping brushes into a large can of turpentine. “Though I noticed you were a bit evasive when answering Euan’s question.”

“I’ve known worse,” Neville said dryly. “And what do you mean, I was evasive? I told him the truth. I do dream about that year, sometimes. I just didn’t go into detail.”

“Any recurring ones?” Dean dropped in another brush, studiously not watching Neville.

“Maybe. Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you draw it?” Knowing Dean, he probably had.

Dean didn’t answer for a long moment, but finally he released a quiet sigh and nodded. “Yeah, I did. And, yeah, it helped.”

Neville glared at him. “That’s nice, for you. I hadn’t had my particular nightmare for ages until you asked me to model for your group. I’d hoped it had gone for good, purged at last from my subconscious, but I suppose it just needed a proper reminder to make its grand reappearance. I wish it would go away and stay away!”

“So draw it.” Dean walked to a table situated at one end of the room, picking up a sketchpad and a box of coloured crayons. “You don’t have to give me the narrative if you don’t want to, just put it out of your head and onto the paper.”

“Nothing’s that simple,” Neville said, his voice sharper than intended.

“No, but it’s a start.” Dean held out the paper and crayons. “What harm could it do? Or, I should say, what further harm? You’re drawing a dream. Purging it from your subconscious, to use your words.”

“Fine.” Neville snatched the sketchpad and crayons from Dean’s hands. “I’ll show you what I dream about at night.” He began drawing, crayons flying across the paper, reds and oranges and yellows covering the sheet. “That’s me, under the Sorting Hat after Voldemort set it on fire. I could hear the flames, crackling and snapping and sparking. I could smell the smoke. I could smell my hair singeing from the heat.”

Setting the fire-coloured crayons aside, he picked up a black one and resumed drawing. “You were at the battle. You know what happened next. Except...in my nightmare it doesn’t. I don’t break the body bind he had on me. The Sword never appeared, and I never do get to kill that damned snake like Harry asked me to do.” 

The crayon moved over the paper, sketching the form of a blackened skeleton disintegrating into a pile of ash. “I don’t dream of killing the snake. I dream of burning to death, screaming until I can’t scream any more, in front of the entire school, and that Harry’s really dead and Voldemort’s won, because...because...” Neville threw down the crayon. “I’m not a hero! I tried so hard that year to be like Harry, to pretend as if I was Harry, to do the things I thought Harry would have done. I’m not Harry though, and I never will be. I’m not a hero, and I can’t understand why anyone would think I am.”

Dean pulled up a stool and sat, taking the finished picture from Neville’s trembling fingers and examining it. “I didn’t feel all that heroic either,” he confided. “Especially when I ran while they killed Ted Tonks. I never felt less like a Gryffindor than I did that day. It wasn’t until later that I learned something important.”

“What’s that?”

“Not everyone can be a hero. The ones that are...they don’t all come in the same size. There are epic ones chosen to save the world, and then there are the ones who run when they have to, so they can fight another day, and then there are the ones who do what they must because they can’t _not_ do it. That’s the kind of hero you are, Neville. You can’t stand by and let things happen if they’re wrong. You stand up, you tell them they’re wrong, and you defy them. And that, to me, is pretty damn heroic.”

“Doesn’t feel that way, most times,” Neville muttered.

“No, but that’s how those kids today see you. Doing the right thing no matter how scared you might have been. Admit it, you nearly pissed yourself, standing in front of Voldemort like you did.”

The question elicited a short bark of laughter. “ _Nearly_? There wasn’t any _nearly_ about it!”

Dean laughed also, pulling another sheet of paper from the sketchpad and handing it to Neville. “Now draw something you fought for. Something right and good and normal. And then tell me you’ll have dinner with me some night.”

Neville paused in the act of reaching for a crayon. “Say again?”

“Have dinner with me some night.” Dean waited a moment before handing the crayon to Neville. “I’m asking you for a date, man! Don’t keep a bloke in suspense!”

Neville began drawing again. This time the picture didn’t take nearly as long, and a few minutes later he held up a rough sketch of a red carnation. “That means yes.”

Dean smiled, leaned over, and kissed Neville. “My hero.”


End file.
